Film Review: Becket (1964)

Submitted by taoyue on Sat, 10/29/2005 - 16:00

Becket (1964)
directed by Peter Glenville
Frames in this review are taken from the MPI DVD.

Some Kings and Queens of England just make for better subjects of drama
than others. George IV isn't nearly as interesting a character as George
III, and Anne can't hold a candle to the various Henries. Such audacious
and colorful characters they were, those Henries! There was Henry VIII,
who converted England to Protestantism for purely selfish reasons, and
ended up changing the course of history. There was Henry V, as forever
immortalized by Shakespeare [link to film
review], who established the English claim on the French throne and
brought back a French bride from his continental wars.

But it is an even earlier Henry who features in Becket, only the
second King of England to carry the name. Although the credits award
first billing to Richard Burton in the title role of Becket, the film is
as much about Henry as it is about Thomas à Becket. Becket is
straightforward and uncomplicated — at first a worldly and scheming
advisor to the King, he later becomes resolute in his godliness after
becoming Archbishop of Canterbury.

Becket serves as a foil to Henry in their numerous exchanges, and never
strays far from the king's mind. But the reverse is not true. Though
Becket is troubled by his clashes with his royal friend, there is room
only for one mother in his heart. Once he has chosen Rome over England,
he experienced no soul-searching bouts of indecision, no questions of
turning back. While the film's events are driven by Becket's actions,
the plot isn't actually about Becket, but rather about Becket's impact on
Henry. Indeed, we would not remember the name Becket today had he not
clashed with the king.

Plot and History

As with the most delicious historical dramas, Becket takes many
liberties with the facts. French playwright Jean Anouilh introduces
racial and class strife into the picture by having Becket come from among
the Saxons of England, oppressed by the rule of the imported Norman
nobility. But the plot generally follows the broad brushstrokes of
history. Henry confers the Chancellorship of England upon his good
friend Thomas Becket and goes off to fight Louis VII over some land in
Northern France. To fight this war, he has requisitioned soldiers and
money from his subjects. However, the Catholic Church of England refuses
to contribute, being ever mindful of its wealth and privileges.

In a great stroke of luck, the Archbishop of Canterbury dies, and Henry
has the bright idea to install Becket in his place. With his right-hand
man heading the Church, he feels certain of finally having checkmated the
pesky clergy and ensured their subservience. But once installed in a
spiritual position, Becket discovers a newfound purpose and becomes a
staunch champion of Church prerogatives. When a clergyman is accused of
a crime, Becket insists that only an ecclesiastical court can try him.
When one of Henry's nobles orders the man’s execution after an escape
attempt, Becket excommunicates the precipitous Lord Gilbert.

An infuriated Henry then tries to strip Becket of his position, serving
trumped-up charges of embezzlement during his term as Chancellor.
Fleeing England, Becket first finds refuge with Louis VII, then proceeds
to Rome to seek Pope Alexander III's interdiction. The Pope warns him to
tread carefully, and Becket retreats to a monastery. Finally, Becket
reconciles with Henry in a dramatic meeting on the beach, as Henry's and
Louis' entourages observe for posterity.

But this reconciliation doesn't last long. Henry takes a stab at
Canterbury by decreeing that his son Henry would be crowned in his
lifetime at the rival cathedral of York. Afterwards, drinking himself
into a stupor with his uneducated nobles at his side, Henry issues the
apocryphal line, "Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?" The nobles
take him literally at his word and slay Becket in the cathedral as he
prepares for vespers. But it is Becket who has the last word, for he is
declared a saint, and Henry submits himself to the lash as penance for
causing Becket’s untimely death. The film is framed as a flashback, as
Henry kneels in front of Becket's effigy and talks to his late friend.

Characters

But the story only scratches the surface. The film, translated from the
French play, is a cornucopia of clever exchanges and incisive wit. At
one point, Henry gives Becket his ring with three lions on it, and tells
him: "There, that's the Great Seal of England; don't lose it. Without the
seal, there's no more England, and we'll all have to pack up and go back
to Normandy." But there are also searching questions about destiny and
friendship, and verbal clashes that produce enough conflicts to supply an
entire college class with individual essay topics. Norman vs. Saxon,
cultural refinement vs. coarseness, intelligence vs. vapidity, family
ties vs. scheming, war vs. peace, France vs. England, the Church vs. the
State, all of these intertwined with the most central conflict of them
all: Henry vs. Becket.

Henry is played with relish by Peter O'Toole, who became so iconic in the
role that he later played an older, more considered Henry II opposite
Katharine Hepburn's Eleanor in
The Lion in Winter. O’Toole brings a regal bearing to the role, his
posture almost imperceptibly shifting to ramrod-straight and his stride
becoming more confident and assured as he switches pronouns from the
personal I to the royal We. Regal, yes, but not refined. He yells at
his court, works himself into fits of fury, belches, drinks, and whores
his way around his dominions. But unlike his nobles, he at least
appreciates refinement. After Becket imports a new invention from Italy,
Henry learns to eat with a fork.

Becket the Saxon is suave and refined compared to the boorish Norman
nobles, and may very well be the smartest person in England. "Always
thinking," says Henry of his best friend, "He's read books, you know."
Beneath Richard Burton's smoothly paced lines is an unmistakable
shrewdness backed by careful consideration. It is this resourcefulness
that leads him to bribe a French town to throw open its gates, rather
than have to take it by force and pillage. The town showers Henry with a
hero's welcome as he enters the city gates, but Becket only bought the
poor, for the rich cost too much.

Becket has little need to yell until he runs around charging Henry's
officers with eternal damnation of their souls. He almost longingly
refers to Henry with a softly-spoken "my prince" even while the king is
growing ever more pained and infuriated by their confrontation. He is
initially unconcerned with honor; he serves the king, and is practically
Norman in all but blood (and table manners). But he has an essential
kindness about him even before his spiritual enlightenment, saving a poor
peasant girl from being ravished by Henry by asking to have her for
himself (when he has no intention of doing anything to her). It is this
quest for meaning in his life that makes Becket put his stake in the
ground when his moment in history arrives.

Yet Henry is a capable ruler in his own right. He is well-versed in
playing competing interests off against each other, and he is the one
manipulating Becket for his own purposes by installing him in various
offices. Thus Becket's change of heart is especially wounding to Henry,
as he is then left with no one else in the world to call friend. Henry
has strained relations with his mother, the Empress Mathilda (a severe
Martita Hunt), who ignored him as a child. He hates his own children and
shuns his wife Eleanor (Pamela Brown) as a dry desert, with whom his
procreative duty was nigh-unbearable. There is no hint of love in Henry,
for Anouilh's Eleanor is not the conniving love-her-and-hate-her Queen of
James Goldman's play. She is rather aloof, somewhat of a nag, and
seemingly doomed to fight Henry without much success. At one point, she
is so stunned by Henry's outburst that she has no rejoinder than to run
away crying, feebly threatening to complain to her uncle the Emperor.

In this lack of love, Becket is no different at first. The captured
Welsh noblewoman Gwendolen (archly elegant Siân Phillips, speaking with
an accent that adds a touch of mystery to the role) is very much in love
with Becket, a companion from a race conquered by the English. But
though he spends much time with her and clearly enjoys her company, he
does not return the sentiment. As Becket the Chancellor points out to
the clergymen in their opening confrontation with Henry, his mother is
England. He cannot even deny Henry when the King claims Gwendolyn for
himself, nor can his cold heart take her back when the king is done with
her. In an poignant and sad moment, Gwendolen bids him farewell by
giving him her harp, saying as her voice begins to break up, "You've
almost learned to play it." What eloquent dialog.

Driftless people make some of the most devoted converts to religion. Is
it any surprise then that Becket finds a purpose in life when he learns
to love holy mother Church? This is why Becket can withstand the
upcoming conflict with assurance and confidence, while Henry's moves are
constantly undermined, leading the King to exclaim in exasperation, "Are
there no men in England?" Becket can put his trust in God to set him on
the proper path for carrying out His mission. And yet, it is Henry who
has the freedom initiate action.

In contrast, Becket is but a puppet, first manipulated by Henry, then by
Bishop Folliot of London (Donald Wolfit, intense, but with a reservoir of
cunning underneath). It is the Bishop of London who first incites Becket
to defend the independence of the ecclesiastical courts, as he would have
done had he become Archbishop. Even when Becket escapes across the
English Channel with his fiery young Saxon assistant Brother John (David
Weston, alternating fury with sullenness), he is used by King Louis and
Pope Alexander. A cultured King Louis (played by John Gielgud with a
twinkle in his eye) tells Becket as much amid the fresh air and bright
light of his palace. Had he been faced with a similarly troublesome
clergyman, Louis would've done exactly as Henry had done. He is granting
Becket his protection for the sole reason that it will trouble the
English throne.

In this way, the play can be said to lean towards the secular position in
the nominally central dispute. Just as Henry's illusions about the
cheering throngs in the captured town are quickly dispelled by Becket's
explanation of the arrangements, so too are the old Archbishop of
Canterbury's platitudes about being "men of God" swiftly punctured by
Henry's observation that monks fought fiercely during the Conquest, when
there was pillage to be had. The Pope backs Becket only tentatively,
mindful of the political game to be played, and the ambitious Bishop of
London eagerly leaps to Henry's side when the trumped-up charges of
embezzlement are dangled before his eyes as a means of obtaining the
desired archbishopric.

Though Becket is as fearless as Martin Luther would later be, he fights
ultimately for a losing cause, subtly tarnished by the fact that we never
determine the guilt of the offending clergyman who caused the hubbub.
Today we take it for granted that civil authority must trump
ecclesiastical law. As for the independence of the Church from state
authorities, that will be swiftly dispatched with in England, six Henries
down the road.

Thus, although spiritual matters provide the impetus for the plot, the
play focuses on Henry and Becket. Becket is never far from Henry, even
when separated by hundreds of miles. As Becket is heading toward
immortality, Henry is living with the family that he dislikes and
drinking with the brain-dead Norman nobility. (One of them replies to
Henry's inquiry with the proud claim that he "never" does any thinking
that doesn't have to).

There is fatalist streak in Becket, as he calmly orders the doors opened
for vespers even as armed men are waiting outside. But ultimately, one
must wonder who gets the upper hand. Henry is stripped and whipped after
making his peace with Becket, but there is a bit of nonchalance in his
manner as he loudly proclaims that the murderers must be punished, then
tells those very same nobles that everyone must make their peace with
Becket. Even in his soliloquy in front of Becket's tomb, there is the
hint of uncertainty and possible insincerity with qualifiers like "I
suppose." Becket is canonized and Henry has been taken down a notch, but
he has now regained the love of his people and no Becket to trouble him
any longer. Is this true contrition, or just a show?

Conclusions

For fans of dialog and plot, you could probably slap the flimsiest of
film conventions on Anouilh's play and still end up with a fine film.
But the filmed Becket, directed by Peter Glenville, is no
hastily "opened-up" stage play. Edward Anhalt's Academy Award-winning
screenplay cannot completely disguise its stage origins, with long scenes
of characters making long speeches and snapping fast exchanges to each
other. But it inserts enough establishing shots and changes of scene to
provide the other technical arts with the opportunity to make a truly
cinematic film. After all, the film was nominated for Oscars in eleven
other categories, although none of them stood a chance against
My Fair Lady.

The costumes and art direction place us firmly in the dark world of
medieval English castles. The French palace and other French locations,
in contrast, are light and airy, with finely-dressed people and rich
furnishings. It is clear which is the more civilized nation at the
time. John Cox's sound is clean and unobtrusive, and Laurence
Rosenthal's score adds color with its heraldry and underlying soft
emotion, while having the good sense to go away altogether when the
viewer concentrates on the twists and turns of dialog.

Geoffrey Unsworth's cinematography and Anne V. Coates' editing are
particularly effective and delightful to observe. While the intense
drama overshadows many of the other technical aspects of the film,
talking heads might call unwanted attention to the artificiality of the
play format, were it not for the filmic arts that add visual interest to
the screen. Unsworth's lighting brings out the detail in the interiors
even while maintaining an appropriately dark feel overall. Camera motion
is smooth and well-coordinated, with meticulous blocking of the actors
for very structured compositions. The camera moves from one
perfectly-composed shot to another, with complicated dollies and pans and
tilts to transition among them.

Unsworth plays with spatial relationships, sometimes using split diopters
to maintain focus on two far-apart focal planes in a dimly-lit room.
There is a surprisingly intimate two-shot of Henry talking to Becket's
effigy in the cathedral crypt, which matched with a similar two-shot
during the flashback section, but with the sizes reversed so that Henry
is now much larger than Becket. Who's pulling the other's ropes? The
photographic statement on spaces well complements Peter Glenville's
direction, which has Henry pacing around impatiently, generally staying
far away from everyone except Becket. Coates, as usual, makes the
difficult task of seamless editing look effortless. Not once does the
viewer have a desire to see any angle other than the one being
presented. Editors cut by instinct, but somehow her instinct becomes our
instinct as soon as it hits the screen. A wordy 148-minute film goes by
so quickly that the viewer is left pining for the sharp wit of those
12th-century characters as soon as the film has ended.

As with many other independent productions over the years,
Becket's original negative was neglected, and a restoration was
only completed in 2003 by the Academy Film Archive. Further rights
issues held up its DVD release until 2007, when a limited theatrical
re-release was also done. [link
to article explaining the situation] The DVD is not great, but it's
acceptable, and certainly beats the bare-bones MGM DVD of The Lion in
Winter, the other great 1960s historical drama starring Peter
O'Toole as Henry II.